Chronologically
by Shiroi Hoshi
Summary: In your opinion, there are three stages to falling in love. You wouldn't do it any other way. The common misinterpretation of love starts with the mythical spark of affinity, but you don't think so. You prefer to know it as the abrupt malfunctioning of your lungs. "I am not 'besotted' with Akasuna fucking Sasori—" SASODEI AU, ONESHOT.


**Hello, I'm still alive... /killed/ I was writing this plot for someone else and I thought it would make a very good SasoDei and I miss this pairing so much I could die. So I hope this will earn me forgiveness from you all T.T I will... update Cataclysmic Tranquility... soon... I think.. (Will not promise because...) I love you guys!**

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In your opinion, there are three stages to falling in love. You wouldn't do it any other way. The common misinterpretation of love starts with the mythical spark of affinity, but you don't think so. You prefer to know it as the abrupt malfunctioning of your lungs.

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**Stage One: Disbelief**

He is so perfect that looking at him feels like a sin, but then again you've never been a saint. You don't remember the last time you've longed so much for someone. Your fingers are curling into fists with the sole purpose of restraining themselves from reaching out to him, for him to brush his skin against yours. You already know, even if he isn't in close proximity that the contact will be electricity crackling down your spine. Explosive, powerful, _addictive_.

You must have been radiating intensity for it takes you a full two seconds to realize that he has turned around and is matching your stare with one of his own, hypnotizing lips tilted upwards in a small, teasing smile. You forget to hold your breath, or perhaps you had been holding it the whole time. One step, two steps, and he is right in front of you.

"You don't know the meaning of subtlety, do you?"

It isn't a "hello", not a "nice to meet you". You wonder if you should drop your eyes and back into the crowd, but you don't. In a moment of insane impulse, you smirk and say, "that is a word that doesn't apply to you." You feel yourself cringing, and wonder if his widening smile indicates appreciation or disgust.

What you don't expect to earn though, is the hand he offers to you, and the confident murmur that is his name. You stare briefly, confused and uncertain before taking it.

Immediately and yet too late, you realize your mistake: you are dying to touch him again, and he hasn't even let go of your hand.

Slightly flushed and disorientated, you pull away and flick your eyes to the side, to the ground or behind him. He notices your discomfort and laughs— a low, soothing chuckle, and fits his fingers and thumb under your chin, turning you back to face him. "Don't worry," his smile carves a path straight through your layers of denial, "I probably like you as much, if not more, than you like me."

That's it. Simple, ridiculous, and very unheard of. You fall, and you're falling hard.

First dates, curt texts and sarcasm galore play an extremely important part in your relationship. You especially adore the way he enjoys making a mess of your hair, long fingers dragging through the strands and the feeling of him lingering over your scalp is enough to drive you insane. Your snarky remarks about his height draw out very, very satisfying reactions.

"Why do you keep messing my hair as if you're a lot taller than me, _Danna_?"

"Shut up, brat, at least I'm not shorter."

"Tch, yes, _Danna_."

"Brat—"

You'd never admit, but you love it when he gets all worked up about it and bends you over the nearest table just so he can be _above_ you. But all is well.

Because three weeks later, he is all yours to kiss. And you are only his to touch.

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**Stage Two: Insecurity**

You know that he's busy. More often than not, you find yourself in your dorm staring at your phone, a war raging in your head over the decision to send him a message or not, and then trying to convince yourself that you are _not_ feeling empty without his voice or deprived of his feathery touches.

What is he doing?

Is he out with his friends?

How many days has it been since he's visited your dorm?

Is he _cheating_ on you?

God help you, _no_.

You call Pein instead.

"Oh, Deidara?"

"Hey Pein, are you free?"

"Be over in ten."

Pein is sprawled over the couch, quiet as you rattle on and on about the frustration that is Akasuna Sasori and then pause to give a detailed analogy of his god-sent fingers, perfectly sculpted torso and oh god, those arm muscles that flex whenever he hovers above you.

The slight grin playing at the side of his lips tells you just how amused Pein is, so you stop and ask if you should continue or if he wants to leave. He shakes his head, offering a passing comment, mentioning how besotted you are with one of the devil's brood.

You scowl, throwing yourself at him so he topples backwards, bewilderment clouding his face. "Hey—"

"Who said I'm 'besotted'? That is the most cringe-worthy thing I have ever heard—"

"In case you don't know, I just summed up your emotions with one word." Pein is grinning, satisfied with himself, and you wonder what sort of expression you are making.

"I am not 'besotted' with Akasuna fucking Sasori—"

"You're not?"

Both you and Pein turn to see your topic of discussion leaning against the doorframe on his elbow, his left eyebrow arched upwards in a questioning silent enquiry of "what is going on?"

You realize your compromising position and scramble off a breathless Pein, god damn hoping that your face isn't red. The boy beside you shifts and stands up from the couch, casually fixing his hair and then yours. You want to tell him to stand a little further for fear of the heat burning in Sasori's eyes.

A careless chuckle and a sarcastic farewell before Pein tips an imaginary hat and leaves your dorm, making the added effort to brush shoulders with your very tensed boyfriend.

He closes the door quietly and drops his bag onto the ground, eyes on you and only you. He lifts a hand and beckons you over with an index finger, curling it in a way that makes your stomach flip in both anticipation and apprehension.

You don't move, so he approaches you instead, pushing you down onto the couch with a firm grip on your shoulders. You sit with a short gasp, butterfly wings beating hard against the confines of your ribcage.

"What the fuck were you doing on top of Pein?"

You haven't been doing anything, and that is the truth, but in a situation as such, you have no idea how to respond.

"Just... exactly what I was doing, I guess."

He shifts you and in an aggravatingly slow pace, leans into you until you are trapped between his chest and the seat of the couch. A restless hand slips beneath your shirt, and his cool dry fingers trace a line across your stomach as his eyes search yours for some sort of proper reply.

You answer with a shiver and flushed cheeks.

"I wasn't doing anything I shouldn't be, idiot—"

He presses his thumb lightly over your protest and you shut up, flicking your eyes down to watch him drag it from one side of your lips to the other, drinking in the way heat feels trapped between your unfortunately clothed bodies.

Unconsciously, your lips part and close over his thumb, watching his expression carefully. He pauses, then lets out a sigh.

Your hand sneaks behind his neck and you pull him into a kiss by the nape, not wanting to glimpse any sort of doubt in his gaze. His sharp inhale ignites your already existing spark of desire, and you can't think of anything more disappointing than the sink in your stomach when he pulls back and pins your wrists above your head.

"Listen, brat..."

You narrow your eyes, and widen them when he leans in to brush his lips over the curve of your ear. "You are mine," his whisper rearranges your atoms as you shudder, "and in case I haven't made myself clear, I do not like to share."

"What are you implying here?" Your voice is an anticipating exhale.

He captures your earlobe between his lips, a low rumble thrown from his throat. "I mean, don't let anyone fucking touch you in ways more intimate than friendship, unless I say they can."

You can't resist a soft chuckle. "Possessive."

He growls, pulling back to glare at you, mouth slightly open as if to say something, but you place a finger to his lips and grins.

"I promise."

Confusion. And his eyes brim with what you assume is relief, before they revert back to dark, unreadable orbs.

"Good boy."

And damn, he looks so attractive with the zipper of your pants between his teeth.

His hand brushes your semi-aroused crotch.

"Fuck," you breathe out.

"Fuck indeed."

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**Stage Three: Resignation**

It is the way you wake up on Saturdays, the remnants of last night's dream integrating with slivers of morning sun spilling in through the windows because you've forgotten to close the curtains again. You check your messages to process seven missed calls from a probably very frustrated Sasori. You call back, because you're nice like that.

"Yah Deidara, did you just wake up or— never mind," he sighs, and tells you to let him in because his legs are fucking tired of standing outside your dorm and he isn't about to sit on the floor like a homeless pervert.

You find his exasperation rather endearing, and saunter up to the door, opening it a crack. His glare strips away all signs of sleepiness you had been feeling.

"Good morning, gorgeous," you say, in an attempt to make good with him.

"Good afternoon, idiot," he replies.

So it was unsuccessful, but you don't really mind. You let him in, and as you turn around, feel his arms encircle your waist. Warm, firm and signaling that he wants to say something.

"Yeah?"

"Don't bother eating breakfast. We're going out."

"Where—"

"Can't you just stop with your questions and go with 'thank you' once in a while?" He sounds annoyed, but the tinge of amusement doesn't go unnoticed, so you know you're safe to continue prodding him for answers.

"Where are we going?"

"On a god damn date, brat. A date."

The sides of your lips tilt up into an unconscious smile and you turn around in his arms, deciding that you're in a good enough mood to kiss him. He returns it with a soft chuckle and pushes you towards your room, murmuring that you should get dressed.

As you close the room door, your chest warms and you think you feel like you've got wings or something similar to that shit, because the thought of him waiting for you outside makes you want to curl up in your bed and squeal like a high school girl head over heels in love. It doesn't even sound that cliché to you anymore. Besotted? What if you are? Not like it's going to make him love you any less.

You think of him, you, and everything else. You think of sometime in the future when the both of you will part, and you don't ache inside, because memories of "I love you"s dying at your lips like wingless butterflies and his promising kisses convince you that not everything has to end.

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**A/N: Reviews would make my day :D I'm sorry if my writing skills have deteriorated :c I will try to un-rust them :D**


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